Know a good lawyer? Apparently State of Origin is no defence for silencing your mother-in-law.

July 8, 2011

Righto, let’s take a breath.

What a week. Can you remember a bigger build up to a footy game? And a better result? I doubt it.

Locky bowed out a winner. We shed a tear. The football Gods got it right. Queensland smiled.

Ricky was sad. He shed a tear. The football Gods got it right. Queensland smiled.

Now, I know Fridays are usually time for a racing story or two. A tall tale, or a bold prediction. Maybe some nonsense about a special that slipped through our unlucky paws.

Today, however, something different. A change of pace. The reason? There was a State of Origin incident. It was kept pretty quiet. Nothing in the papers. But the story should be told. I nearly killed a grandmother.

You think it was noisy at Suncorp Stadium? Nothing compared to our house. Because the Blues’ most vocal supporter was sitting on my lounge. My sweet mother-in-law.

Before I explain the two-hour verbal assault, I should tell you a little about the Treasurer’s mum.

She’s a sweetheart. The kindest, caring, most thoughtful old girl you could imagine. Even bakes cheesecakes. But put the footy on, and cross her at your peril.

It could be any game. Origin. Titans. Runaway Bay Under Tens. She will support her team like life depends on it. Loudly.

I have no idea where the voice comes from. It’s un-relenting. Play after play.

If we’re at the game together, I can usually organise an escape. Head to the end of the row. But in my own home, I was trapped.

Referees are particular targets. Opposing teams are always off side. Opposing players are always tackling around the head. I know this, because she yells such comments at a level on par with a jet engine. Constantly.

During a tense time in the first half, I swear Tony Archer looked our way. The Origin whistleblower must have heard her through the telly, thirty suburbs away.

Fighting back is futile. She’s in the zone. Anyway, it would be a brave man who argues the interpretations of the play the ball law with the woman who’ll be preparing his post-origin desert.

My only defence was to turn the TV volume up. Through the roof. For a while it worked. Until I realised I was swapping mum-in-law for Gus Gould. Volume down. The barrage continued.

I imagined my defence lawyer. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, the defendant had no choice. The noise became too much. Insanity by way of disrupting Locky’s farewell. Can you blame him?”

Ok, I’ve gone too far. No one took harm in the construction of this article. Except my ear drums.

As is always the case, the crazed footy fan departed on the stroke of full-time. Replaced in an instant by the Grandma we love so much. She even clapped Locky. Said kind words about Mal. Then gave me a hug and did the dishes.

I admire her passion. Even if it is deafening. She’s the same about her kids and  grandkids. Her son-in-law too, who wears the wrong colours. Loves us all. And doesn’t care who knows. Just ask Tony Archer.

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Farewell Locky, and thanks. From the next generation of Maroons.

July 5, 2011

I like my champions humble. No loudmouths required. No need for tyres to be pumped up. Guys that leave the game in better shape than when they started. And they give back, constantly.

For mine, the best ones are those special characters who work their entire career, craving the respect of their teammates. Young men and women who more often than not become leaders, on and off the field.

Sure, some of the better ones have egos you couldn’t jump over with a decent run up. Good luck to them. Just not my type.

I’m not using the term hero here. Because the people I’m talking about, athletes who perform feats that dazzle us each weekend, know they’re not heroes. They get embarrassed by the comparison.

A hero is a bloke like Corporal Ben Roberts-Smith. The Aussie soldier who was awarded the Victoria Cross earlier this year. Remember him? A giant of a man. Wouldn’t he do some damage running off Thurston? You’d rather be feeding him for a day than a week.

Instead of performing on the paddock, he gets the job done on the battle field. With bullets whizzing past his ears. He single-handedly stormed a machine gun post in Afghanistan, to save the lives of his fellow Diggers. Yep, that’s a hero.

Which brings me to Darren Lockyer. A special type if ever there was one. A gifted footballer with a rare talent, who would cringe at being on the same page as a VC winner.

He’ll captain his beloved Queensland for the final time tomorrow night. You may have read about it. The Origin Decider. Pretty big deal. In front of a sell out crowd at the home of rugby league. With every lounge room and every pub in Queensland screaming his nickname.

A crowded desk of Hollywood scriptwriters with access to a full bar couldn’t have come up with this script. The perfect farewell. At the perfect stadium. Against the perfect enemy.

It’s difficult to line Locky up with the greats who’ve gone before him. Not that he’d want you to anyway.

The King is the natural comparison. But he’s not Wally, who was larger than life. Tallis was larger than everyone else. I swear he grew a few inches when he stepped over the chalk.

Alfie was smaller than everyone else. With a heart larger than everyone else. And Gilly was tougher than everyone else. Humble too. But different again.

No, he’s not any of those legends. Because he’s his own man. And he’s a champion.

It’s hard enough to be number one in the world in one position. It’s easy to forget, the skipper has been the best in two. With a bit more hair and a clearer voice, Locky was the ultimate fullback. He wasn’t running through those holes. He was gliding. Twinkling toes barely touching the turf.

It’s the way old timers describe the great Dragon Reg Gasnier slicing through defences. Yes, I’m talking about people who are older than me. They do exist.

Locky could have played out his time in the Number One jersey, breaking try scoring records, and at the same time adding a few years to his career. But he didn’t.

He was given a challenge, and he accepted. Play a new role. Wear the six. Become a true leader. And a greater player. Yet another reason why he’s a champion.

You’ll never hear the bloke give himself a wrap. He’ll praise the team, and the coach, and sometimes even his opponents. But not himself. It’s not his style.

Darren is not one for extravagance. No crazy PR stunts. The hospital visits, the chats to others down on their luck, are done in private. And there are plenty of them. Sound like a champion to you?

You’ve heard him say he doesn’t want the decider to be about him. And he means that. With all his might. Because he doesn’t see himself bigger than anyone else. Certainly not more important than the others. And most of all, not bigger than the game itself.

What he wants to do tomorrow night is run, and tackle, and lead. He wants to make the right choices in attack, every play. He wants to defend like his life depends on it.  He’ll drive the big blokes, and keep emotions in check when the going gets tough. And he won’t niggle anyone. Not once.

I want him to be holding the shield above his head after fulltime. Yes, the perfect farewell. I want Mal to produce that toothy smile. I want big Sam to give him a bear hug, and Thurston to do that groovy hand shake.

It means all of Queensland will smile on Thursday. An entire state will be happy. Poor Gus and Ricky will go home, and complain about something. Making our smile even bigger.

And I reckon it will happen. I do.

As great as that is, there’s something even better. Because of Darren Lockyer, there’ll be a spring in the step of kids from Coolangatta to Coen.

In backyards, and parks, and playgrounds, they’ll be running with the footy, and laughing. Playing with their mates, and their brothers, and their dads. Running, and stepping, and scoring.

It’s how all those great names started. Those same neighborhood games.

This week, and for the weeks and months ahead, youngsters will be inspired by a bloke who plays the game for all the right reasons. Loves everything it stands for. A humble man, who just happens to be the best there is. A true champion.

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The thrill of the chase. From Lang Park to the track, why we love a swooper.

July 1, 2011

There’s nothing like a big finish. A barnstorming end. Victory in the last seconds. Winning in the final bound.

A Warne wicket on the last ball. Steve Waugh smacking a boundary at day’s end to reach his ton and put the Poms in their place.

How many origins have we seen go down to the wire? Games won and lost in a final set of six. Coyne’s miracle try in ’94. Billy the Kid stealing it from Ricky Stuart’s mob in Game One this year.

Premiership deciders too. What about Andrew Johns in the ’97 grand final? I know, he’s a Blue, but credit where credit’s due.

Last throw of the dice, and he darts down a crowded blind side. No-one else would have done that. Joey finds Darren Albert, and with six seconds left, the Knights win their first premiership. Now that’s a finish.

Roar fans were crying into their plastic beers in this year’s A-League decider. Red hot favourites, and they were on the way out. Big time.

Two goals down in extra time, the Orange army members were heading for the exits. But as George Michael so elegantly put it – ‘ya gotta have faith’.

Not only did they level the score with seconds left, the Brisbane boys won the penalty shoot out. It doesn’t get much closer than that.

In racing, it’s a tight finish that gets the blood pumping. Especially when a crowd favourite is flashing home. We generally spot it late, back in the field. And then hope like hell that it’s ours.

There are some famous ones. Like the Golden Slipper in 2000. You don’t win Slippers by missing the start. Belle du Jour didn’t just miss the kick. She nibbled on carrots and applied lipstick before leaving the gates. Singo owned her. Naughty words were uttered.

Last into the straight, the filly couldn’t win. No way. Then Lenny Beasley started weaving a path. In and out, back and forward. Whoosh. She got there in the last stride.

It happened last year too. Not quite the Slipper. On the beautiful big track at Caloundra. The Sunshine Coast Turf club’s biggest Saturday of the year. The Glasshouse Handicap.

It was a ride I’ll never forget. Because the bloke who performed the miracle is no longer with us.

Woorim was way back. Last, cluttered up behind the big field. But then Stathi Katsidis got to work.

He waited. And waited. Then he weaved. We held our breath. In a flash, he had Woorim back on the inside, charging. Horse and jockey hadn’t missed a beat. What a ride. You won’t see many better.

In an age of great jockeys, only a handful could have done what Stathi did that day. As I’ve said on these pages before, we’re all so much poorer for his passing.

Rob Heathcote’s gelding returns to Caloundra tomorrow. And he has plenty against him to win again. A whopping five and a half extra kilos. He’ll get way back. And if it’s wet, forget it.

But all is not lost. The bloke up top, Damian Browne, is one of the few who could match Stathi as his best. Trust me, he’s a genius. No longer under the radar. For a long while the boys and I were getting over the odds every time he went around.

There are other threats. The McLachlan family has Phelan Ready primed. The local hope. They’d love to do it for dad, the late Big Bruce.

On his day, the other Heathcote horse, Gundy Son, can do anything. And Gerald Ryan is supremely confident with his last start Ipswich winner Adnocon.

Looking for a long shot? Keep an eye on Viking Legend. The bloke riding him, Chris O’Brien, is one of the most under-rated hoops in the game. He’s making the trip from Gosford, and he’s not coming for the pies. Trust me, this bloke’s as good as any of them.

As long as the rain stays away, I’ll be sticking with Woorim. Very unlucky in the Stradbroke. If you join me, be brave. Hold your nerve. If he gets up, it will be late. Maybe in the last stride. Like Warney, and Coyney, and Joey.

Remember, there’s nothing like a close finish. Unless we get beat. That falls into the category of “oh so bloody close”. You won’t be surprised to know I have plenty of those tales. Sad, painful, unfair stories. For another day.

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We do anything to help our sick kids. And yes, paramedics spoil a birthday party.

June 28, 2011

Nothing is simple. Not in this family. Take a well planned birthday, throw in a medical emergency and a few paramedics, and you have our weekend.

By all accounts, it had been a glorious time. Daughter One, who from here on will be known as The Teenager, had celebrated in fine style. The hotel stay. The Titans debacle. And then family dinner. Wonderful fun.

Daughter Two, who from here on will be known as Daughter Two, had been unusually quiet. No teasing. No stealing of older sister’s goods and appliances.

We knew she had some sort of bug. Off colour, with a cough and a sniffle. At Skilled Park, she didn’t even yell her adoration for Scotty Prince. Unlike The Teenager, The Treasurer, and The Mum-in law.

Come feast time, at a funky Gold Coast Japanese place, she’d had enough. No food. No banter with the cousins. Something was up. Her temperature.

When we arrived back at grandma’s place, our digs for the night, she’d gone downhill. We gave her medicine and a sponge down. She went to bed, as sick as I’ve seen her.

We checked on her every fifteen minutes. That’s what parents do. Around midnight, as the oldies sipped a cuppa before bed, and The Teenager spoke to a greater section of the Western world on Facebook, we heard her talking. In another dialect.

She was bolt upright, in her Titans’ jersey, wide-eyed. Her skin was bright red. There was gibberish talk. And she was burning up.

Our family has some experience in deciphering gibber. They’ve heard it from me more than once, usually after long sessions on the truth serum. But this was different.

I asked if she knew where she was. At home, she said. Are you in pain? She mumbled something, and waved towards the sheets, which were now soaked. I need seven, she called to someone beyond me. My little girl was boiling. I had an awful chill.

The Treasurer called the Health Hotline. The nurse was calm, and helpful. More than likely, it was a bad fever. But she couldn’t be sure. We need to rule out meningitis. Keep her in bed. Stay calm. And call an ambulance.

The temperature was now above 40 degrees. We sponged her, all of us. Her alien tongue ceased, finally. Relief, of sorts. But that bright colour remained.

You think the worst. That’s what parents do. You don’t say it, but you think it. And you stand at the front door in your winter pyjamas, and wait.

The paramedics arrived, on a shift from hell. Saturday night on the Gold Coast. They went to work quickly. Temperatures, skin checks, blood pressure.

The lead operator teased about her team’s loss to the Sharks. She smiled. Good sign. Is your neck sore honey? Please say no. Please not meningococcal.

It was, they decided, a severe fever. Nothing more sinister. The peak of this damn bug she’d been battling. And it would pass. We received instructions for medication and hydration. They told us to ring immediately if it flared again.

As they walked out, the second bloke pulled me aside. He recognised me. Because he’d been at this house before. Yes, I said sheepishly. I was the bloke with the dislocated ankle. In the garden, out the front. What are the odds? The curse of Mum-in-law’s house strikes again.

They walked back to the ambulance, giggling as they looked at the tiny retaining wall I fell from four months ago. I didn’t mind. They were amazing. Able to look after sooky old gardeners, and brave young girls, all with a smile.

I know parents who deal with way more than fevers. How do they do it? One of my best mates went through leukaemia with his young son. It was touch and go. They had to split their time between Cairns and Brisbane, as the treatments continued. His little bloke isn’t little any more. Fighting fit now.

My nephew survived a serious blood disorder as a baby. It seemed never-ending. But he survived. He had to, because he’ll be playing for the Maroons one day at Lang Park.

We have friends who just found out their four-year old has diabetes. Four years old. Life has been turned upside down. But this amazing little girl is giving them strength. They’ve been all but knocked over by the love and support from those around them.

And on it goes. You know someone too. Fighting the fight. Finding strength wherever they can.

Another chum is a doctor, who fights cancer in kids. A miracle worker. A mum, and a wife, and a wonderful specialist who makes sick children better. Most of the time.

On a dark day, every now and then, she has to tell families that the battle has been lost. The cancer was too much. The fight over. Can you imagine having to deliver that news? Next time you’re having a bad day at the office, think of her, preparing for that conversation.

As parents, we would gladly swap places with our sick kids. Make it me, not them. I’ve said that prayer. I bet many of you have too. But it doesn’t work that way.

Daughter Two was on the improve the next day. She wanted to hear more about her hour in fairyland. We’ll add to the story over the years, to achieve maximum embarrassment on her 18th birthday.

Of course, she’s managed to pass the bug on to me. Prepare for more gibber talk. And get the sponge bath ready. I’ll try to be as brave as Daughter Two. Unlikely. Just don’t call that paramedic out again.

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A daughter’s special day means no racing for me. Except maybe a sneaky double..

June 24, 2011

There’ll be no Eagle Farm for me tomorrow. After weeks of enjoying the winter carnival up close, I must decline the invitation. A better offer has arrived.

Daughter One celebrates her 13th birthday. Thirteen glorious years. The party starts tonight. And runs until she’s nearly 14.

It’s been quite a run for the serious punter, this carnival. Punishment, week after week. It started for real with the Black Caviar show in early May. There’ll be few bigger days, ever, in Queensland racing.

We backed up for two more top shelf Saturdays at Doomben. The pace was a cracker. It became too much for an old fella. Those running the home stable ordered a spell for Oaks Day.

Just as well. I don’t need to remind you how big the Stradbroke was the following weekend. A true staying test. Finally, Ipswich Cup with the masses. Five giant meetings in six weeks.

That’s behind us now. Wallet inflated, somehow. Damage confined to several major organs. The human body’s ability to recover is truly a wonderous thing.

Anyway, the focus shifts this weekend. Quality family time. With just the odd peek at the form guide.

It’s ok, they understand. You’re talking to a bloke who had a double running on the afternoon of his wedding. When we said goodbye to Mum, God bless her, I had a nice win on a country cup. I still reckon she ordered that inside run.

When the stewards looking over me call correct weight for the final time, you’ll all be forced to have a bet. Those who farewell me once I’ve logged off, will be given a mystery trifecta ticket on entry. It’s marked clearly in the will. I’m still working on how I’ll take my cut of any winnings.

Hang on, how did I go from winning over the carnival to turning my toes up? That’s a new high in drifting, pointless rambling, even for me. Let us return to the topic of the day; The Birthday.

This weekend has been planned for weeks. We’re spending tonight in a city hotel. When I say we, I mean myself and The Treasurer, Daughters One and Two, and a bunch of thirteen year old girls. A couple of big rooms with a connecting door.

I can hear you sniggering. Karma, you’re yelling at the screen with delight. Punishment for having all that fun.

I’ve seen what’s planned. My input wasn’t needed. The more notable activities include turns at doing facials and home-made beauty treatments, a few crazy prank calls, eating a large bucket of sour worm lollies, and the obligatory pillow fight.

The timeline has scary movies and popcorn from midnight. I fancy my chances of sneaking a look at the form guide when the screaming starts. Only briefly, of course.

After a few minutes sleep, we’ll enjoy breakfast, and more teenage-style fun, before farewelling the friends, and departing for the Gold Coast. So begins phase two of the birthday bash. They might let me listen to a race or two in the car on the way down. Then again, maybe they won’t.

Daughter One, you see, is a mad Titans fan. We’re off to their clash with the Sharks tomorrow afternoon. Players will be warming up as they declare correct weight in the last. Not that I care.

True, it won’t be the game of the round. There was some late mail that they’re actually paying people to go through the gates. But none of that matters. She wants to cheer Scotty Prince. If I can smuggle a transistor in, I might get to hear one of the later races in Perth. Kidding.

As exciting as the bottom of the table clash might be, it will have nothing on our family dinner planned for that night. Yes, we’ll hop on the train, get back to our car, and head into Surfers Paradise for an evening of giggles with the relatives. By this time, a cool drink might be in order.

Come Sunday morning, just after ten o’clock, we’ll officially have a teenager on our hands. There’ll be cards, and presents, and love. Lots of that.

June 26, 1998. It still makes me giddy, just thinking about that day. When the footy coach completely forgot he’d been making plans for a son. Because she looked at me, and made everything different. Better.

Thirteen years later, she’s still smiling. And shaking her head at dad. I’m banned from the pillow fight apparently. Who knows, it might give me time to get that double on.

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Sorry, Miley Cyrus, but I’m taking a stand. And you can’t talk me out of it..

June 21, 2011

The girls were puzzled. How could I turn them down? Who would knock back the chance to see the one and only Miley Cyrus in concert?

They were crowded around the laptop, buying tickets to her first Brisbane show. Four tickets. One for each of us. Quick thinking was needed.

I’ve mentioned the young American songstress on these pages before. She’s very popular in our house. To be able to scream at her from close range was a dream come true, apparently.

The tickets are not cheap. Think of being front row to see Elvis in action. In a comeback spectacular. With Frank Sinatra as his backing singer. The girl’s nickname might be Ned Kelly.

As much as I want to party with my wonderful daughters, I’ve had to take a stand. I’m on a self-imposed ban from tween and teen concerts.

I told them they’d have more fun without me. An all-girl affair. Yell as loud as you want, without Dad shaking his head. Dance crazy. Just don’t tell me later. And it would save us some money. The Treasurer agreed.

The Daughters have form for dragging me to these type of concerts. They enjoy seeing me out of my very limited comfort zone. The last one was Miley’s Nashville buddy, Taylor Swift.

It must be said, I don’t mind her music. She has a catchy, country sound. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The first thing I noticed was that the crowd was pretty much all female. Maximum age 16. With no intention of sitting down.

I knew the first couple of songs, and tried to join in the fun. Difficult, when you’re not screaming, or crying, or dancing. Or all of the above at the one time.

What troubled me most was the talking. From the stage. The star of the show wanted to chat. Between every song. Long winded, heart-felt yapping. Is that what they do these days?

It was too much. I left early. When I walked outside, I found Dads everywhere. Sitting on lounges. Lying on the floor. Reading books.

No one spoke, but they nodded in appreciation. I’d gone through those doors. They hadn’t. But I couldn’t last the distance. How times had changed.

In the early days, we’d sneak into pubs, to watch some of the legends of Australian rock. Angels. INXS. Australian Crawl. Midnight Oil. Chisel.

They were just kicking off, all of them. And so were we. In grimy places full of smoke and grog and agro.

Truth be told, we shouldn’t have been there. Luckily, ID checks were not the done thing.  We’d get in through an open toilet window. Sometimes a friendly bouncer would turn a blind eye. No one seemed to care.

I don’t remember the greats talking between songs. Although Barnsey might have sometimes. We just couldn’t understand what he was saying.

The focus was on the music. Great, rocking tunes. One after the other. Until the bar closed.

Granted, my memory may be a little hampered. And as a card-carrying member of the Our Old Fart Music Was Better Than Yours society, I might be a little biased. But examples remain.

I’ve never heard a sound like The Eagles produced, when they played in Brisbane a few years back, on their (second) farewell tour. Magic. The concert DVD gets a belt here every few months. I never get sick of those good ‘ol boys.

Anyway, none of that will matter to the girls tonight. Miley will talk. They’ll scream. Better that I’m not in the way. They’ve even given me permission to go for a steak and a beer while they’re out. That’s called a win-win.

Don’t worry, I get dragged along to everything else. Wouldn’t have it any other way. A man has to have something to whinge about.

Daughter One turns 13 this weekend. Very special. And I’ll be playing my part. I’ll tell you how it goes next week. We’re staying in a hotel, with some of her friends. She’ll go through the front door, not the toilet window. And they’ll be way better behaved than we ever were.

I haven’t told her yet, but I’ll be looking after the music. I’m sure her friends won’t mind. No talking allowed. Some of my old cassette tapes should work just fine.

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The spirit of a city to shine on Ipswich Cup day.

June 17, 2011

I’ll be heading up the Ipswich Motorway tomorrow, to attend Queensland’s biggest race meeting.

Seriously. I am not sipping hard liquor as I write this. Completely sober. But given the event in question is the Ipswich Cup, that will change soon enough.

I know what you’re thinking. He’s finally lost it. No surprise really. Call the men in white who talk in hushed tones.

Before you send me to my calm, happy place, let me explain. Ipswich’s grand day of racing attracts more racegoers than my beloved Stradbroke Saturday. Magic Millions Day on the Gold Coast? Not in the same ballpark.

Think Black Caviar Day at Doomben, with more rum. The only other arvo that comes close is Eagle Farm’s Ekka holiday race day. But that doesn’t count, because the entire crowd there is aged eighteen and one month.

There’s nothing like an Ipswich Cup day. And I mean that in a good way. Think of all the great racing events. The Cup. Cox Plate. Doncaster Day. This isn’t one of them.

Instead, it’s an amazing celebration of a city’s spirit. When twenty thousand people cram into a racecourse designed to hold half that amount.

I have no idea where they put them. There are tents on the infield, that become small cities. I’m guessing they see little racing over there. You need a lift in a Hercules to get to some of them. But they love it.

The grandstands are full before the gates open. I’ve always suspected the crowd begins arriving last Tuesday. They’re probably in there now, doing the form, chuckling to one another about getting a seat.

On the way in, it’s the happiest racing crowd I know. Everyone is having a laugh. That says something about Ipswich. They stick together. Forget the barbs from the snobs and the toffs. They don’t get it.

The girls are frocked up. Outfits weeks in the making. They come from all over. For some, it’s their most exciting outing of the year.

The boys arrive in various forms. They show their appreciation that the girls are frocked up. You know how it goes.

There are also blokes dressed as animals. I’m not sure why. Costumes are very popular. I saw a bloke dressed in a bear suit last year. He seemed to be having a good time.

It’s as much a giant party as a race meeting. Believe me, no-one goes short of a cool drink. The bar staff have been training like Olympians just to keep up the pace.

For all the social stuff, there are some decent races too. Every year you’ll find a sprinkling of visiting horses and trainers, looking to pick up some carnival prize money.

This year’s Cup is no different. Kiwi stayer The Hombre will start favourite. Rightly so. He’s been running in much stronger company than this. If the track dries out, double your bet.

The punters will be cheering for Our Lucas. He won the Cup last year. And the year before. Can you imagine what they’ll do if Rob Heathcote’s tough gelding makes it three from three? No-one will leave.

The meeting will be a little different this time. Something special. Early this year, Ipswich was underwater. Swamped by the worst flooding in decades. The racecourse wasn’t spared.

In those grim few days, families lost homes. Lives and businesses were destroyed. Locals needed every bit of the city’s famous spirit.

It’s been a struggle since. But they’ve worked together. We’d expect nothing less. And now, finally, Ipswich is getting back on top.

So there’s extra reason to celebrate. A time for people to say thanks. Even shed a tear. It could be the most emotional race meeting of the year.

If you haven’t been before, make the trip. Join the party. Shout the bloke next to you a drink. Unless he’s in a bear suit.

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Struggling for Facebook pals? Twitter making you twitchy? Make friends with a book.

June 14, 2011

I love a good book. Such a simple pleasure in a complicated time. Learning from the words of others.

Our house wasn’t filled with the classics. I can’t remember if we even had a bookcase. But Mum always seemed to be reading something.

I might be slandering the old boy, but I don’t recall Dad finishing too many books. Newspapers were his go.

He’d pour over the morning paper during smoko at work. Especially the sport pages. Then after a hard day on the tools, he’d check the afternoon editions on our kitchen table.

It was there that he’d tell me whether the journos had got it right. Especially the league writers. What would they know?

I caught his love of the printed word. It wasn’t long before it was my job to buy The Sun and the Daily Mirror.

There were no deliveries in those days. Didn’t need to be. We had the trusty paperboy.

Every afternoon, he’d ride his bike down our street. A teenager with a large cardboard box attached to the handlebars. His whistle would be my cue to dash outside.

All the neighbours would be out too. From memory I was the only kid. He’d weave back and forth across the road, picking us off one by one.

I’d be shattered if that box was empty when he arrived at our house. But always careful not to say anything. Our newsagent on wheels happened to be an amateur boxing champ. He was never robbed.

Books came later. Over the years I’ve collected my own little library. It’s moved with us from place to place.

I’m not big on fiction. Biographies are my go. I love reading about the lives of others. Especially those who have a go. Or inspire. Even those we might despise.

It’s quite a mix in my bookcase. The Reverend Ted Noffs sits beside gangster Neddy Smith. Singo could be next to Dame Edna and Kerry O’Keefe.

This may surprise you, but the likes of John Cash and Dean Martin are on hand. Tom Jones too. Just up from Jack Gibson and Wayne Bennett. Even cricket kook Henry Blofeld. What a dinner party that would be.

Sporting stars, and the people who work with them, fascinate me. Especially those from humble beginnings. So many lessons for the rest of us.

Read the life stories of Lance Armstrong or Andre Agassi, and tell me you’re not motivated. Take a journey with Alfie Langer or Shane Webcke, and try not to cheer. No chance.

I’ve tried to pass my passion on to the kids. We did Fairy Tales at bedtime from an early age. Daughter One loved them. She would order repeats. Sometimes Dad would fall asleep first.

Daughter Two, however, was more for the impromptu. She liked her stories made up, not from a page. Tell me about the moon, Dad. Quite a task, especially after Friday night drinks.

Every year now, we head to the Lifeline Bookfest. For those who haven’t been before, picture the MCG covered with tables of every kind of cheap reading matter.

I head to the Biography table, and snap up a few bargains. The girls find the section for children, and battle with dozens of grandmothers looking for early Christmas presents.

Each finds favourites for a few dollars a pop. Enough to last till next time. And keep them off the i-pod, for an hour or two.

They’re a varied bunch, our fellow book fair visitors. This is an event that attracts all sorts.

Some try to get to the final page while still at the table, in the hope of saving around three dollars. Others are reading so much at home, they’re neglecting personal hygiene. Badly. They tend to get the books they want. Think of the Comic Book guy from The Simpsons.

But at least they ARE reading. Others, it would seem, don’t have time for paperbacks or hard covers. No need to, when your head is buried in Facebook or Twitter.

And that’s a shame. For all the advantages of being plugged into social media, there’s nothing like taking time out, to tackle an old favourite, or find a new friend.

To play my part, I’m taking a stand. Less Facebook, more reading.

Forget Twitter before bed. I’ll be turning pages. With a book that I can smell. No i-pad, thanks. Batteries not required. Besides, I need somewhere to put my Grade Three ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ bookmark.

You can join my campaign. Get the kids involved too. Hopefully we’ll see you at the next Bookfest. Just remember the deodorant.

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How a couple of old blokes will have too much fun on Stradbroke weekend.

June 10, 2011

I’m excited. Like a kid who’s peeked downstairs on Christmas night and spotted a Malvern Star under the tree. It’s Stradbroke weekend.

Queensland’s favourite race day. At our best racetrack. Eagle Farm. Since 1890. What a tradition.

The great sporting venues are rich with history. Around every corner. Especially on a racecourse.

When I first visited Flemington, I imagined Phar Lap steaming up that giant straight. Listen hard, and you can hear the whoosh as Big Red surges to the post.

Go to Randwick, and feel the spirit of Tommy Smith bustling past. On his way to saddle up another winner. Maybe chip a jockey who ignored the gospel.

Eagle Farm is different. When I sit in the stands, I think about the punters of winter carnivals gone by. Cheering. Cursing. Offering a tale of woe to anyone who might be listening. Yep, some things don’t change.

There are spots on course, that help tell a state’s history. I like that. Something old. Something new.

Memories away from the track too. I remember watching in awe from Bundaberg when Rough Habit won his second Stradbroke in 1992. I groaned in Cairns back in ’95 when my favourite sprinter Schillaci could only finish second.

Since then, I’ve worked on some tradition of my own. And that’s why I’m so excited.

My mate and I plan it every year. Our favourite weekend, that revolves around the big race. He flies up, I take time off. A racing holiday for old farts.

It all starts today. We’re off to the Bernborough Club lunch. Honouring a champ, with a few hundred other like-minded fans. They’ll be excited too. I’ll check this for you, but I suspect cool drinks could be on offer.

We’ve been told that Mick Dittman might be speaking. I hope they don’t mind two blokes squealing like schoolgirls on table seven.

At day’s end, we’ll devour a steak at the Caxton. Then watch the footy. Not too late, though. That’s the plan anyway. A bloke needs to be reasonably tidy for the main event.

Come Saturday, we actually get nervous walking through those big gates at the end of Racecourse road. The huge crowd walks as one. Form guide in one pocket. Hope in another.

The day flies past. Brisbane Cup. The TJ Smith. The Derby. And the Stradbroke. What a program.

For what it’s worth, we both like Woorim in the big one. Go the local boy.

At day’s end, we’ll catch the bus to the pub down the road for a few cleansing ales. Like they did fifty years ago. Hopefully we’ll have enough left to actually buy one.

Then it’s off for post-races Chinese. The same restaurant every year, of course. They should remember our order by now.

Once, when the Brisbane Cup was still run on the holiday Monday, we bumped into Paul Perry and the owners of Newport there.

They were celebrating their win in the Cup, and counting cash. With that beautiful cup in the middle of the table. We promised each other, over a mountain of fried rice and cups of cheap wine, that we’d do the same one day.

If we’re not under the whip by this stage, we venture out for a final sip. It’s a never-ending search for somewhere playing eighties music. Sad, isn’t it.

Last year we took a wrong turn, and ended up in a karaoke bar with some very loud American students. Not quite what we were looking for.

Anyway, that’s our weekend. Wish us luck. If you happen to see us along the way, some words of encouragement would be good. Maybe even a tip or two. Another chapter will be written. On and off the track. Tradition. You can’t beat it.

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The grubs will never win, because of men like Damian Leeding.

June 7, 2011

I didn’t know Damian Leeding. But I know blokes like him. They’re braver than me. They go to work, not knowing if they’ll make it home.

I’ve knocked around with coppers for the best part of thirty years. Some of my best mates are either in the force, or retired from it.

People my age remember how it used to be. When the local cop ruled the roost. A boot up the bum, or a clip across the ear. Don’t do it again.

Not any more. It’s a different time. Old school is now frowned upon. Not an option. Everything today has to be by the book. Except the crooks are ignoring the script.

One thing hasn’t changed though. The good officers hate the bad guys. With a passion. They despise what they do to innocent people. And they want them off the streets.

I don’t know Damian Leeding’s widow. A police officer herself. But I know women like her. Brave partners, fully aware of the risks.

Can you imagine what it’s like, kissing someone goodbye in the morning, knowing what could lie ahead? Such strength.

As a rule, they don’t discuss those thoughts with others. But it’s always there. The silent fear.

They are incredibly supportive. It’s a tight-knit group. When the unthinkable happens, as it did last week, they grieve as one.

I don’t know Damian Leeding’s parents. But over the years, I’ve met mums and dads like them. So proud, that their son or daughter is willing to take the oathe to protect the rest of us.

Talk to the parents of a soldier, and you’ll find that same emotion. Watching their own take on the toughest of roles. Jobs that must be done.

Listen to what they say, on those awful days when the Hercules returns with another draped coffin. Words dripping with pride, and pain. In equal doses.

It’s never been tougher to be a cop. The crooks they’re chasing are a new breed. On new drugs. Those chemicals frying their brains, have also eliminated any notion of fear.

We have grubs pointing guns at teenagers, trying to make some pocket-money at their fast food restaurant. Or taking on the bloke working the night shift at the local service station. Patrons are being tied up in pubs and clubs. And it seems to be happening every other night.

These cowards carry handguns and shotguns. Knives and iron bars. Even machetes. All aimed at terrifying some poor bugger trying to make an honest dollar.

Well, enough. It’s time we made a noise. Stamped our feet. Let law makers understand that we refuse to accept low lifes getting away with it.

Police need to know we’re behind them. That the overwhelming mob, the silent majority, appreciates what they do for us, every day. Every week.

I didn’t know Damian Leeding. But I know blokes like him. They’ll shed tears for him today. And after a drink to honour his bravery, they’ll go back to work.

Over time, they’ll help with the bills, when the public appeals dry up. They’ll be around, to take Hudson and Grace to Broncos games. All the while, reminding them what a hero their dad was.

Sometime soon, they’ll also look deep inside. To think about how they’ll react, at the next robbery. Only one answer. They’ll do exactly what he did. Prepared for the ultimate sacrifice, to keep us safe. Just like Damian.

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